


sam wilson's 40th birthday bash

by hupsoonheng



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, Blindfolds, Double Penetration, F/M, Foursome, Foursome - F/M/M/M, M/M, Samtember, Strap-Ons, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Trans Male Character, Trans Natasha Romanov, Trans Sam Wilson, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 03:58:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8129588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hupsoonheng/pseuds/hupsoonheng
Summary: my last minute entry for samtember, based on no prompts because my add ass cannot keep track of anything, where basically sam just gets lavished on for his birthday





	

**Author's Note:**

> i'm lowkey embarrassed bc this got kinkier than i meant it to and also longer but whatever
> 
> i've put a lot of tags on this fic but i know not everyone pays attention to the tags, so pay attention to this: this is a fic that features a trans dude experiencing piv. happily, and on his own terms, but still doing it. this is not for everyone. i treat it with respect to the best of my ability but that's not really the point. if this is not something you want to read, or not something you can deal with, this is me putting the warning somewhere more noticeable

Today's your 40th birthday. 

_Happy birthday, old man,_ you whispered to yourself as you looked in the mirror, and again when you spilled milk on the counter just trying to pour it into your coffee five minutes after that. Doddering already. 

You've had a few places around the US, now, since being granted amnesty. But this brownstone in Park Slope is your favorite yet, paid in full by friends in high places. (Well, the term _friends_ is a stretch. But you'll use it for anyone who pays for you to have a place to live.) You'll admit to anybody who really asks that you enjoy taking the property out of the reach of flippers and gentrifiers, but you also enjoy the neighborhood, you enjoy having a house with an upstairs and a basement in the middle of the city, and you enjoy being close enough to visit your mother but far enough for her to not drop by unannounced. 

Life is something approximating peaceful now. There's never true peace, not in New York, but the people most important to you are all clustered here. Bucky lives across the river, in Jersey City, where the pace is a little slower. He didn't used to be so far, but he's grown in stability and independence. Natasha lives in Brighton Beach, where everything is familiar without her knowing a soul there. Just the way she likes it. 

And Steve. Steve lives with you. You love Bucky, and Natasha, even more now than you did in the years of strife when you met them, but you find home in Steve, as much as he does with you. 

Today's your 40th birthday, and Steve's put together a little soiree for you with a very limited guest list. It's something you asked for in whispers, across the pillow with the lights off, and Steve pulled through even though you told him it was just a fantasy, nothing that had to be real. You'd be happy with cake and booze with friends. He told you you could have both. 

Natasha arrives first. Your heart flutters at the sight of her, even in nothing more exciting or fancy than an oversized T-shirt and jeans. Your heart does a little less fluttering when you notice she's carrying an Elmo-themed gift bag that congratulates the receiver on turning 4 years old. She drew a 0 next to the 4 in black marker, over and over to make it dark and scribbly. "Thanks," you say with a dry voice as you accept it. 

"Open it when we're eating," she says, looking like she's trying not to smirk. Not always the perfect spy. She drops her huge purse next to the couch, which makes a thump that sounds even heavier than it looks, and then takes a seat to tool around on her phone. Like you're not standing right there. 

Then again, you know what it's like to want to focus on something like a phone when you're nervous. Maybe you're not the only one feeling jittery about this. Is that good? 

Bucky comes a solid twenty minutes later, which makes him a half hour late, and which also completes the guest list. His gift is in a box about the size and weight of a mug, which makes you think it's a mug, and in fact having been to Bucky's apartment and opened his cabinets, you _know_ it's a mug. At least it's predictable, unlike whatever Natasha brought in a children's party bag the size of a medium dog. God, you hope she didn't bring you a dog. It's not moving, but... 

"Do you guys want something to drink first, or...?" Steve loves to be a host. But Natasha rolls her eyes, and Bucky shakes his head, so Steve gestures to the stairs. Everyone kind of shuffles, and then Natasha rolls her eyes again and goes up first, dragging her purse with her. Bucky follows her, and you follow Bucky, with Steve's hand on your lower back. 

You shiver as Steve secures the blindfold around your eyes, before anything else. Hands descend to pick apart your clothing, which you admit you chose to be easy for this. A button-down shirt with nothing underneath, easy to undo and pull down your arms. Loose linen pants meant for some kind of beach-lounging life you don't lead, easy to drop around your feet. You're naked in under a minute, and only because those hands take their time, exploring each inch of skin they uncover. 

Steve is the one who lays you down. You know it because you know the shape of his chest against your shoulder, you know his smell, you know the sound of his breath in his lungs. This is part of the game. Different hands part your knees, and those are smaller than Steve's. Natasha's. That's a little bit of a cheat because Bucky only has one hand, still. 

You can feel the mattress buckling this way and that as someone—Natasha, if you're tracking her right—moves to your side, as if to get out of someone's way. A warm thumb presses against your asshole, laden with the lube that's gonna go inside, and with Steve kneeling next to your chest and holding one of your hands, that's definitely Bucky. Bucky has the roughest hands, if not the biggest, but his touches are deliberately gentle. 

Natasha holds your hips down as Bucky stretches you, finger by finger. Steve shifts back, and you think he's leaving the bed, but instead his lips are at yours and you kiss him. It stings a little, what Bucky's doing, but he's also whispering to you that it's okay, you're doing so good, he's trying to go slow for you. It fills your heart with love when it was already bursting. 

When your ass is ready, you're dripping and aching in front—your usual term for it—too, but everyone here knows that's off limits. It's why Bucky had to prep your ass in the first place. You can feel everyone leaving the bed, hear the zipping and clinking and rustling of the other three finally getting their own clothes off. Natasha tells Bucky to _take a picture, it'll last longer,_ and then there's a clatter and a thump that might be his phone being kicked out of his hand. Sometimes Bucky likes to pretend he doesn't get sarcasm, even years after the start of his new life. 

"Sam," Steve says, and you prick your ears, arching your neck. "Can you find the edge of the bed?" 

"I think so." You turn yourself over, crawling backward until your toes hit the air. You consider what they're seeing and you feel panicked and thrilled at the same time. Maybe it's actually all the same emotion, and you just can't put a name to it. 

"That's good," Natasha says, and you can hear the smile in her voice. "Even an old man like you still looks good face down, ass up." 

"I am _not_ the old man in the room, not by far," you argue, although you admit your current pose is less than dignified to make a point from. 

"I'm biologically in my early thirties, I'm pretty sure," Bucky says. "Steve, too." 

"You're always young to me, babe," Steve says, and you should donkey kick him for that, except of course you have no idea where he is, and either you'll hit air and look real dumb, or accidentally get Nat who doesn't deserve it (this time). Of course, if you hit Bucky instead, that'd just be a bonus. 

There's a quick pause, a little silence, and then Steve says, "We're gonna start now, okay, Sam?" 

"Yeah," you say, trying not to sound as breathless as you suddenly are. "Yeah. I'm ready." 

"Okay." Steve says it, but now you can't tell where he is in relation to you. And now—and now there's something pressing against your ass, something hot and thick and insistent. 

Whoever's cock it is, it keeps pushing into you, steady but unrelenting, and you moan as it settles all the way inside. It's fucking huge, and you don't know why the three of them decided this was the one to start off with, but you can't say you're unhappy with the decision. You're given a moment to breathe, to adjust to the magnitude, to how full your ass is, and then whoever's going first starts to fuck you. 

It's energetic and smooth at the same time, and each thrust makes your hips jerk forward. Skin slaps skin, because you're getting fucked to the hilt every single time. A hand finds its place just under the small of your back, probably for balance, rough with callus and scar tissue. 

"Who's this?" Steve's voice asks, right around where the head of whoever's fucking you would be. 

"Bucky," you groan, right on the crest of a particularly strong thrust that makes your voice break. Your clit is throbbing, but for now you keep your hands folded under your forehead. 

"Are you sure?" Steve asks. 

You think about all the things you know about Bucky's body. You feel strong thighs between yours, feel a soft stomach pressing against the top of your ass. A body you've held yourself to before, when one or both of you were shaking from being chased by memories. You know the hand on your back, from when you've held it or kissed it, from when it's followed the lines of your body, from when it's been inside you, like only moments ago. You know this dick, been fucked by its girth before. If you really focus you can imagine you feel the scar of his circumcision, and you'd swear you even know the shape of the head of it. 

"Yeah, that's Bucky," you say, and the hand you know is Bucky's gives your ass a slap. 

"You got me," he says, and he wraps his arm around your waist to pull you up just enough to kiss your shoulders. 

Of course, guessing who's inside you doesn't mean their turn is over. If anything Bucky's thrusting only increases in intensity, until you feel like he's going to fuck you right through the floor to say hello to the living room below. You squeeze your shaking legs, your entire—fuck—you don't have that many words you like to call it, everything you have up front, but the entrance is so needy it hurts, and your clit is massive with arousal, and still you won't touch. Pushing your thighs together is the most you'll do this early in the game. 

Bucky comes inside your ass, raw because that was part of the fantasy you whispered to Steve, and you can feel it, hot and coursing. You meet each of his final thrusts with as much vigor in your hips, and he stays in you as he rides out his orgasm. He used to be dead quiet when he came and now, now it's still not full-throat but he lets himself moan, at least, kind of high pitched and breathy. You love hearing it. 

As soon as he's out, the next is in. No rest for you. That was a stipulation, too. This one isn't as girthy, but it's longer, curvier, and definitely has more weight to it. 

"I already know," you murmur with a laugh, even before the second dick is wholly settled in you. 

"What do you know?" Steve asks, his voice coming from that same spot over your back. 

"That's one of Natasha's favorite dicks," you say. "I've met this dick before." 

"You've met all these dicks before," Natasha says with a sour note. "No need to be a _dick_ about it." 

"Oh, you got jokes?" you say, turning your face over your shoulder even though you can't see anything. "Not even jokes, really. Just puns. A lazy pun, at that—" 

Natasha rolls her hips forward, and you're flattened. Unlike Bucky, she doesn't wait, or give you a chance to get yourself together. Her hands wrap around your hips and don't let you move, and she bends herself around you, her breasts rubbing up and down your back with every thrust. Natasha does actually have a penis, but she never uses it for penetration, ever. She says that's not what it's for, which is why she brought a harness, and you bet her purse was heavy because she couldn't pick just one dildo to bring. 

And you get it, one of those things she never has to explain to you, the same way your vagina isn't for penetrating, with very little exception. It's something you can appreciate each other for, one of those wordless understandings Natasha loves so much. 

It's not as easy to tell when she comes, considering her cock is made of silicone, but her hips snap forward and the one hand left on your hip gets tighter, and she does a lot of panting. She's the opposite of Bucky—she used to be real loud, until she scraped that away as another affectation of her many personas. Now, as she digs her way to her own core, she lets herself just enjoy the rush of hormones without all the posturing and playacting. 

Still, you don't touch yourself. When Natasha slides out of you your hips follow the tip of her dick, and you can't stop yourself from rutting in the air. You can feel how easy it would be to come now, just a few deft touches with the right words and you'd be completely undone. 

Not yet, though. You curl your fingers into the fitted sheet until a corner pops free, and you hear Steve laugh in that general direction, feel the sheet shift as he must be pulling it back into place. "Feeling a little frustrated, babe?" 

"Babe who?" you ask, not without bite. You actually think it's cute that he calls you that, like dating a frat boy without all the bullshit. Sometimes when he wants a beer, you make him say it in a frat boy voice, _babe, grab me a beer?_ and _beer me, babe,_ even though the cultural reference is mostly lost on him. 

"I'll take that as a yes." 

"It's not like I don't know who's going next, though," you say, pushing your hips back. Where's Steve? _He's_ next. "Only one of you left." 

"I dunno, Bucky's refractory period is about as short as mine." 

"I could go again," Bucky says from somewhere to your right. 

For a moment that spikes your imagination. Bucky sliding right back into you, so soon after he came, just to do it again, with all his hugeness. Bucky fucking right into his own load, only to add to it. You pop the corner of the sheet again, and this time it's Natasha who fixes it. You know because she berates you for it, pulling the sheet hard enough to yank it out of your grip completely. 

If they agree on who goes next, you don't hear it. But your ass stretches, and stretches some more to accommodate the dick going into it, and that's definitely Bucky again, newly slathered with lube. Your entire fucking pelvis is on fire, your legs shaking with how much you need an orgasm, how much you need to be touched, you can't come from your ass alone, as good as it feels, as much as sparks pop off in your head with every slide of Bucky's cock. 

Natasha doesn't have that super soldier thing going on, and she won't put anything against her orgasm-tender genitals, but her hands touch your face and she brings your lips to hers. You love Steve and Bucky, but Natasha is your favorite kisser, more thoughtful and tender in her ministrations, never opening her mouth too wide. Your clit buzzes when she bites your bottom lip and you want to cry. 

Bucky comes again, this time sobbing into the nape of your neck as he does. You don't want him to pull out, but you can't wrap your legs around him at this angle and his dick leaves you, with your ass feeling empty and a little cold in his wake. 

Someone else settles in behind you, and electricity runs down your spine straight to your clit. Natasha is still in front of you, just holding your chin delicately for now, and Bucky is done for at least a little bit, which can only mean it's Steve, finally. 

Steve doesn't push right in. Instead he bumps the head of his cock right against the back of your other entrance, as if he can't aim. You know he's teasing you, brushing the inflamed nerves and making you sob. "Steve," you say, injecting warning into your voice. 

"What, Sam?" he says, sounding about as amused as if you'd told him some milquetoast office joke. 

"Don't play with me, Steve." You don't mean to growl that much but _fuck_ , he did it again, letting the length of his dick just barely skim your inner labia. "I gave you—" You shudder. "I gave you the damn rules ahead of time." 

"I know, babe." He pushes down your shoulders gently, bumps his hips against your ass and plants one heavy hand just under one of your elbows. You can feel his whole body against yours, but more importantly you can feel his dick, heavy against the back of your thigh. "I'm just lining it up." 

"Lining it up nothing, you're Steve Rogers, you have the agility of a god and the accuracy of a—a—" What's an accurate thing that's poetic? "Fuck, I dunno, a damn good gun." You'd sound a lot smarter if the majority of your blood wasn't pooling in your groin. 

"I dunno about all that," Steve says, chuckling. "Weren't you saying the other day you couldn't figure out why I couldn't aim my dick at the toilet first thing in the morning?" 

"Gross," Natasha says, at the same time as Bucky says, "Sounds about right." 

"Steven Grant Rogers, I swear to God," you say from behind clenched teeth, "if you don't put that dick _somewhere_ I'm gonna start a fight and you're not gonna be able to finish it!" 

"You're gonna have to be more specific in your threats," Steve says, grinding the base of his dick against your asshole, "because that sounds kind of hot, _babe."_

"Do I have to be in the room for this part?" Natasha asks, and you scrabble with one hand, looking to find either her thigh or a pillow. You find the pillow first, and you hurl it in the direction of her voice, huffing as you do. 

"Find me that dick of yours and I'll throw that next," you snap, just before Steve puts a kiss right behind your ear that makes you moan. "It's my birthday!" 

"Yeah, and apparently you're turning five, little tantrum baby," she replies, but she says it with a little laugh and you can feel her knee-walking toward you. She touches your face, and a new image flashes through your mind, even as you can feel Steve finally lining up his dick properly, like he might put it in your ass like he was meant to in the first place. 

"Wait, Steve, wait," you say, and he pauses instantly. 

"What now?" 

"I'm changing the rules, is what," you say. "Where'd Bucky go?" 

"Here," says Bucky's voice from the far corner. 

"What're the odds you can go for round three?" 

"Why does Bucky need to go again?" That's Steve, who sounds mostly confused but a little offended. 

"I want—" You swallow, barely in control. 

"Tell me, Sam. Anything you want." Steve sits up behind you, rubbing soothing hands up and down your back. 

The first time you say what you want, you mumble it into your arms, and Natasha tips your chin up. She flops down in front of you and tells you to whisper it into her ear, and she promises she'll tell the boys nice and quiet so you can't hear. So you tell her, and she gets up, and whatever it is she tells them in turn you sure as hell can't make it out, so you guess she delivered on that promise. 

Bucky sounds ragged as he settles in behind you. His last orgasm was less than ten minutes ago, and the one before that fifteen, but his cock meeting your asshole is like an old friend at this point, just as huge and hard as the last two times. It slides all the way home, and he pulls you back into his lap, his legs stretched out in front of you, his hand on your stomach. You're at the top of the bed this time, so he can recline against the heap of pillows Steve arranged. He puts lazy kisses on the back of your neck while you wait for Steve. 

You feel Steve's approach in the way the bed creaks, and you feel his square fingers sliding down your temples. He pushes the blindfold up, and after the momentary pain of light, you're rewarded with the sight of his face, flushed and smiling. He gets so fucking red when he's turned on, making the blondness of his hair stand out all the more. You spread your thighs, even as you reach with both arms for him. 

Steve can't help but tease you more. He thrusts between your labia without penetrating, bumping against your clit, and it makes you foggy-headed, but you swallow and give your head a shake, like that'll shake off impending orgasm. You can't come now, not when things are about to get so good. 

The thing about Steve is that he's your one exception when it comes to front penetration. When it comes to your pussy, you'll say, which is only a word for it when Steve's cock is involved, and no other time, and out of no one's mouth. It's not that you don't trust other people, because you have a reasonable amount of trust for Bucky and Natasha both, and Natasha especially understands these kinds of matters. But Bucky is volatile, although not because he wants to be, and Natasha straight up doesn't want to fuck you there anyway, which is fine by you. 

Steve is home. Steve is safe. You can't explain it any better than that. So you don't always let him, but when you do, you feel warm and happy when every time in the past it's just brought you panic and self-loathing and the desire to knock out whoever's trying to be inside you. Steve is safe. Steve loves you, and understands you, and you love him. 

Steve's cock pushes into you, and you cry out in relief, as hard pressed as you are to admit it. You can feel both Steve and Bucky in you, feel the thin wall between their dicks inside you, and you feel lightheaded again thinking that they must be able to feel each other. He sheathes himself in you completely, kisses you slowly while you adjust to the reality of both of them in you. 

When Steve starts moving—because Bucky can't, not much anyway, and you suspect he's fine with that—he sets a pace that's almost overwhelming. He's not touching your clit anymore, which is the only thing that's holding you back from orgasm—barely. Steve fucks best when he's sitting bolt upright, his hands under your knees to push them all the way open, and you twist your upper body toward Natasha, reaching for her now. 

Natasha falls into your arms readily, kisses you with fervor. Her tits press against your flat chest, and the feel of her nipples brushing your skin makes you shudder almost as much as the cocks working in and out of you. She brings your hand to her girlcock, which is what she calls it, but she controls your hand's movements completely, and you let her. 

Bucky comes first, crying out louder than ever against your shoulder, his hips jerking up so hard he almost knocks Steve out of you. But Steve perseveres, with heavy eyelids and a slack mouth and balls so tight you know he's about to pop, and he presses two fingers to your clit, circling them in time with his thrusts while you're still kissing Natasha. 

Natasha comes next, breaking the kiss as she does, her brows coming together and her mouth opening in a silent shout as her body stills against your arm. Her hips tremble against your hand, and you put uncoordinated kisses to her shoulders, her chest, her breasts. 

Steve doesn't let up, his thrusting speeding up and his massaging of your clit keeping tempo. He murmurs nonsense about how good you look, how much he loves you, _come for me, Sam, come for me,_ and when he asks like that it's too easy. You come, you come and it rocks you head to toe and back again, makes your vision go white and your whole body vibrate. Steve shoots into you right in the middle of it all, right when you're spasming around him the most, and you hope it's good for him, because this is so good for you you think you might die. 

For a little while, the four of you just kind of lie there, with you sandwiched between a tired Steve and an almost unconscious Bucky, and Natasha alongside you. Somehow she had the forethought to put her phone on the bedside table, and is already fiddling around on it. 

"Should I take a commemorative picture?" she asks with a little smirk, pointing her phone at the Samwich the three of you make. You thought Bucky was functionally dead down there but he exacts revenge for his own phone, thrusting his arm out to smack Natasha's across the room. "Hey!" 

After Steve and Bucky both soften up and fall out of you, you form a line for the use of your own shower to clean up, because clever Natasha beat you to it. You're first because it's your birthday, Steve waits after you, and Bucky is last because he literally could not get up in time. 

When you're dressed and dignified again, Natasha reminds you that there are gifts. Like real, tangible ones, like the one she brought you in the desecrated Elmo bag. You rifle through the bag with incredible trepidation, and pull out something soft, a little lumpy, a little scratchy. A sweater? 

"I knitted that myself," Natasha says, and you feel kind of bad for automatically thinking it would be something awful. Natasha has a heart, after all. It has some technical issues but overall it looks pretty good, and she picked a color that matches your wardrobe and complements your skin tone. Then you unfurl it all the way. 

It just says SALTY on the front, the letters a little crooked but perfectly legible in stark white. 

"Wow, Natasha, you shouldn't have," you say, with the same dry voice you used when you accepted the Elmo bag in the first place. 

"One more thing," she says, pointing at the cursed bag again. You sigh, reach your arm in again, and pull out a plastic tub. Shea butter? 

"I'm thoughtful, remember?" she says, already looking at her phone even as you approach her for a grateful hug. You were almost out of shea butter, actually. "Yeah, yeah," she grumbles as you hug her, but she doesn't push you off. "Happy birthday, Sam." 

Bucky presents his gift again, and you were right. It's a mug. It's a mug with his face on one side, and your face on the other, and they're both clearly cut out in Photoshop with little to no care, and they're both kind of unflattering photos, from the way Bucky is clearly mid-blink and also apparently can't blink both eyes at the same time, to the way you're in the middle of saying a word with the letter F in it. It's a work of art. You hug him, too, and give him a peck on the mouth that makes him give you a bashful grin. "Happy birthday, Sam," he says too. 

Steve's gift is a Kitchen Aid stand mixer, which is actually more a gift for him than for you because it's his ass that does all the cooking around here, but he claims it's because it means he can cook more things for you. Technically the sex thing was also a gift from him, but you can't really put _that_ in the holiday round robin. Then he gives you a neatly-wrapped box with the Bluetooth headphones you've been wanting for your running, and that finally gets him his thank you kiss and hug. "Happy birthday, Sammy," Steve says with a big smile. 

A little later, Bucky and Natasha are gone back to Jersey and Brighton Beach, and you're just on the couch with your head in Steve's lap, wearing the SALTY sweater while Steve rubs his thumb over your hairline. "Did you have a good birthday, Sam?" 

You don't even have to think about it. "Best birthday ever." And you tilt your head up to kiss him.

**Author's Note:**

> jesus. kill me
> 
> any thoughts you have of any nature would be appreciated tbh but if nothing comes to mind that's cool, i understand


End file.
